own private room at
the theatre where we were rehearsing, and then I had to make sure he
wasn't dead, for his blood was on my hands, my sleeves, my shirt front.
It was only concussion of the brain, but I hoped it would keep him
still, until I'd got well away. That afternoon an officer I knew had
happened to mention before me that a lot of men were being shipped off
to Oran for the Foreign Legion. I remembered. It was as if some voice
reminded me. Africa was my goal, but I'd next to no money. I thought,
why shouldn't France pay? Well, here I am! Now you know why I must
desert. Wouldn't you do the same in my place? Have you got it in you, I
wonder, to sacrifice everything in life for a woman?"

Max thought for a moment before risking a reply. Then he answered
slowly: "I--almost believe I have. But who knows?"

"Some day you will know," said Manoeel Valdez, looking away toward the
desert.

CHAPTER XVI

THE BEETLE

When Max had served four months in the Foreign Legion he felt older by
four years. He looked older, too. There were faintly sketched lines
round his mouth and eyes, and that indefinable expression which lies
deep down in eyes which have seen life and death at grip: a Legion look.

In some ways he had been a boy when he took his sudden resolve in the
Salle d'Honneur to prove what the Legion could do for a nature he
himself doubted. Now he was no longer a boy. He realized that, though he
had never found time to study the success of his experiment, and had no
idea that it was being studied day after day by his colonel. Had he
guessed, some dark hours might have been brightened by gleams of hope,
for in spite of his luck in the Legion there were times when Max felt
himself abandoned, a creature of as small consequence to any heart on
earth as a half-drowned fly. A more conceited man would have been
happier, but Max had not joined the Legion with the object of finding
happiness, and one who was watching believed that it would be good for
him to wait.

Max and Manoeel Valdez (alias Garcia) had looked forward to the great
march, already vaguely talked of when they joined. But it had not been
a march for marching's sake: its real purpose was more grave. A band of
Arab thieves and murderers on the border of the M'zab country had to be
caught and punished. No recruits were taken: disappointment for Max and
despair for Valdez. He had hoped everything from that chance, and, in
his rage at losing it, made a d